Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Monthly Archives: March 2025


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Blue! Red! Orange! Bang!

On my way out of the art store yesterday, I saw it, the “Color of the Year.” And the first thing I wondered is, (I’ve always wondered) who decides?

We were asked on the playground. In the classroom. By adults. Our friends. It was one of the most frequent and popular questions — “What’s your favorite color?” I suppose people thought it was such an easy question. No thought or controversy. Just simple. And I listened to them pull the answers out of the their holster so quickly, with such fluidity, such ease – Blue! Red! Orange! Bang!

Why couldn’t I do that? Why did I have to give it so much thought. Why, at even five or six did I struggle? Who could pick I thought? All the colors – they had so much importance! Yellow for when I needed cheering. Blue for calm. Green was a longing for bare toes in the grass. Tans for the gravel that led me home. No one wanted to hear that. The thoughts raced through my brain — just shoot, I thought, pull the trigger – just say blue! But I couldn’t. I loved them all too much. So I began explaining to the blank faces, the eye rolls, the far off stares, the backs walking away.

And maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage, but for Grandpa Rueben. He listened. He looked directly at me. And if he were to walk away, his hand always extended back. He knew. He told me, often. You decide. Whatever the situation, he repeated it — “You decide.”

The world has always tried to direct, but now more than ever, we are bombarded by “influence.” (My apologies to Dominique, he hates the word.) And I’m still wondering, why on earth do we need it? Why do we need someone to tell us our favorite color. Moreover, why do we even need a favorite? We get to decide. Daily. We get to grow and change and love what we love, who we love, when we love. Neither my heart, nor my palette can be boxed in.

You can choose Mocha Mousse for your favorite color this year, if that’s what it actually is — if you love it, really love it — but remember, you get to decide! And you get to change your mind. You get to be you! Bang!

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Comfort and joy.

I never imagined the seeds that were planted would produce the same yield. I don’t think they did either. There were so many of us. In so many places. Certainly all those grandchildren and great grandchildren would have differences. But from that beautiful farm, Rueben and Elsie, with the faith of spring, they sprinkled us with love and knowledge — so much, that we could do nothing but grow. 

As I was drinking my coffee amid the glorious shelves of the bookstores, surrounded by magazines and truth and fiction, I took a sip and smiled, because it occurred to me, this was my “root-beer float.” Amid all the chaos of those nine children, those 27 grandchildren, Grandma Elsie found the time for “self care.” She would probably cringe at the words, but it was her treat — her root-beer float. An oasis in all of the uncertainty of land and weather that is a farm. That is a family. Of course she offered one to me, to anyone, but the seed, I see now, was not the root-beer, but the time. The time for that bit of joy that goes straight to your heart, brings you the comfort and joy that is supposed to last through the year, throughout your life. 

And so I take it, the time, to enjoy my coffee, my books, my magazines. And you can call it whatever you want, but I know one thing for sure, it is not time wasted. With each sip taken, each word read, I know, “something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.” 

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Every penny.

What we used to call the “penny candy” is now fifteen cents each, but that seemed like a very small price to pay for the additional time travel. Placing the Razzles in the bag, I was in the first grade, next to Gerald Reed, accepting his tokens of affection behind pink cheeks. Each Bazooka Joe plopped me onto gravel in front of our mailbox on Van Dyke Road, patiently waiting for the mailman to bring the gift I ordered from the cartoon wrappers. Zots and licorice, right back to Ben Franklin, frantically filling the sack before the cartoon previews began at the Alexandria Theatre next door. Each trip worth every penny!

I gave the candy to my friends in their early Easter Basket. They wanted to share, but I had already been filled with the travel, the love and the joy. It all comes down to experience. Connections. Time spent with the ones we love — those sitting beside us unwrapping the candy, and those we carry in our hearts, deliciously ever! 

No love left unspent.

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Free gift with purchase.

Of course I learned it at home, long before I shopped for make-up, but through the years, time and time again, it has served as a constant reminder. 

At first glance, you might think it’s shallow, this love of make-up, but I always saw it as so much more. It was transformative, what my mother did in front of the mirror on Jefferson Street. It was only a block away from where she worked. And it only took her about 20 minutes. But the leaps she made in time and distance from that condo, from those doubtful feelings, those “old tapes that played in head,” — this was nothing short of extraordinary.

Macy’s and Herberger’s were the go tos. Just shy of a power point presentation, she had it all figured out. What to order. When. Never missing a pre-order, a free gift. Her utility closet as crisp as the Clinique counter. I marveled. Strived. I keep striving. And the true magic never remained in that mirror. It was what she took in that reflection. The best self created and then reflected to her world. Anyone she encountered at School District #206 got her best. She knew it. They knew it. Even on her most difficult of days, the presentation was the same. 

Maybe it all begins with a gift. The kindness we are shown. The strength that is passed on to us. The hope reflected through each challenge. Oh, what beauty lies within! 

I went to Nordstroms yesterday. The first thing I asked was if there were any promotions with the mascara. There were two. She explained to me the best. We talked about make-up and France, and Iowa and shopping. We laughed in a way that lay all trust on the counter, and I was home. No “old tapes” to play — my mother walked that path, so I wouldn’t have to. Perhaps her greatest gift of all. Giving to me this joy. Take it. Share it. It’s always free.

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Gently nesting.

Having long hair, I would often come home after a tumultuous day navigating the Washington Elementary School playground with a bit of, what my mother called, a bird’s nest. Often tangled in hood or cap. Sometimes even zipped in the collar of my coat. Falling out of one ribbon and retied into another. Bungied, bungled and bouncing around my face. But I was never worried. She took her time. Untangling with care. Strand by strand. Story by story, of the birds that could live there. Until my blonde locks lay gently upon my shoulders. 

I suppose I took it for granted. I did until the day that my friend Lisa said her mother really worked her rat’s nest hard the night before. What’s a rat’s nest, I asked. My hair, she replied, it was all snarled, you know, messed up. A rat’s nest — I was silently horrified. Is that what they called it? Not my mother. Never. She would never give me a rat. Always a bird. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, it takes strength to be gentle and kind. But how do we know, unless we are given the example, to first be gentle with ourselves? 

I cried when we crossed the border into Minnesota yesterday. I did not fight the handlful of silent tears. I let myself long for the nest that wasn’t there, then cradled myself in the nest that is always with me. My mother gave me that. I will have it ever. Nesting. Gently.

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Angels near stoops. 

She said, “You draw like an angel.” I looked up and asked, “Do angels draw?” She smiled and handed me another sheet of paper. 

Is it funny, or fabulous, that I still believe her? I had no real reason to, I barely knew her. Grandma said her name was Aunt Ruby. It’s funny how that one word, Aunt, could make anyone safe. She was probably a cousin, second or removed, I didn’t know the difference. (I don’t really even know now.) I was sitting on the front stoop of my grandparent’s house. Crayons and paper spread across the cement steps that no one ever used, but for such projects as this — or making baby dolls from the flower heads that grew on either side. 

I don’t know how long she was watching me. I could get lost inside of it. When she began to speak, I didn’t understand at first – her voice was slower and rounded, southern they said, whatever that meant. But soon I got used to the shapes of the words and began to follow. She, like so many, had pegged me as shy, but I was just listening. She asked if I would draw her something. Her refrigerator was bare, she said. Knowing what lonesome meant, having felt it, I neither wanted her, nor her refrigerator to feel it – empty – so I agreed. 

She flew out the next day. Did she put it in the car for the two hour ride to Minneapolis? In her luggage on the plane? Did she have magnets for the refrigerator? Did it curl up on the ends in the southern heat, only to be cooled with the opening of the fridge door? Did she smile when she saw my name that stretched across the entire bottom of the page? She had already given me the answer with one smile — Yes!  And I still believe. Angels DO draw. They ask questions. They give compliments. From stoop to soar, they connect us. Every day.

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Two Monets in Omaha.

I knew the minute the words came out of my mouth that they were wrong. But the salt (that was either sweat or tears, or possibly both) dripped down my cheek, cracked opened my mouth, and they just slipped out into the overalled waist of my grandfather — “There’s nothing to do.” He, who always had something to do on the farm, looked down at my face. He was good about that — never saying words into the wind. “It seems you have two problems,” he said. I looked up. “One, you miss your mother.” My six year old bottom lip quivered in agreement.” He touched my ever-blonding hair. “And two, you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”  I shook my head. “Figure out the second one, and that will take care of the first.” He smiled. I grabbed hold of the hammer loop on his overalls and followed him to the field. It didn’t take long to realize he was right. 

Some might say we are in the middle of nowhere, as we make our way across the country. Only when I allow myself to think that, even for a brief moment,  can I get lonesome. I have learned to catch myself before quivering. It’s all a summer day on the farm, I think, and take a good look around. 

I have been blessed to see some of the most beautiful museums in the world. From Chicago to New York, to Amsterdam and Paris. Extraordinary! And it’s easy to get lost in all of that beauty. It would be simple to shrug off a place like Omaha, for example, our current location. But there they were. Hanging in the Joslyn Art Museum. Two paintings by Monet. In this heartland of Omaha, Nebraska. Two Monets in Omaha. I grabbed hold of the beauty, and I was saved. 

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Letting you know.

I’ve written it on many postcards throughout this trip. On greeting cards. Even wished it in silent thoughts sent upward while driving — “Wish you were here.” Do people still do that? Or have we changed to the selfie — barely giving thought to the place, or anyone else?

The cynic might say, well everything will be disgarded, even your precious greeting cards. And I suppose that’s true. But I still believe. I believe we can make the moment itself more precious by gathering someone in. Telling someone the story of where you are, what you are doing. By telling someone, it’s you I thought about, on the special stretch of road, in this magical place. And maybe it’s only a few minutes. Maybe it’s only the time it took you to pen the note. Buy the stamp. Mail it. The time it took them to walk to the mailbox. Open the seal. Read the hand-written words. Does it matter? I think about it like this — if I added up that amount of time, all of those minutes, what I wouldn’t give to spend that with my mother, my grandparents, the people I love! Just those few moments – golden! So yes! I believe it matters. So I will still write the postcards. Mail the greeting cards. Because what does it matter that I was there, if you don’t know, how I wished you were here.

At the end of the day, it’s all about who you love, and letting them know. 

At the end of the day, it’s all about who you love and letting them know.
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In the rear view.

I liked to sit by him at the table, breathing in the smell of the earth from his overalls, but there were often things on his plate that had me racing to the cereal cupboard for a replacement meal. I was not one for squirrel, or gizzard. Gravy poured over anything never appealed to me. It didn’t present the horror of a church potluck, but it was close. So I grabbed a stool to reach the bowls from up high, and something Kellog’s from the variety packs my Grandma so generously kept stocked in the very attainable bottom corner cupboard. And I was saved. 

We carry emergency food in the car. Mostly crackers. Mostly for me. Dominique will often brave the local cuisine as we drive from state to state. Gas stations are sometimes the only source. Somewhere in the indistinguishable fields between Colorado and Nebraska, we pulled over. After gratefully using their bathroom, I knew I would be finishing my Wheat Thins. Dominique looked behind the glass and settled on the deep fried gizzards. (Of course they had gizzards!  If my grandma could so easily show up with her root-beer floats, my grandpa was certainly not going to be outdone. And there they were – gas stations gizzards.) 

I kept driving with the box of crackers neatly tucked between my legs. Dominique ate his gas station gizzards — and really enjoyed them! The smell of earth seeped through the windows. Rueben and Elsie smiled in the rear view.

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The Rockies

I thought it was the biggest hill possible. Actually I didn’t give much thought to other ones, this was the one in our yard on Van Dyke Road. By the time I finished bundling — snow pants, extra socks to fit into hand me down boots, hat, mittens, scarf, hooded jacket — I could barely remember where I was headed, let alone get there. A slight push from my mother’s hand, and I was out the door. Walking past the picture window, I looked inside for assurance, and waddled my way to the side of the house, dragging my red plastic sled behind me. It was a quick slope that led to the renter’s door of the basement. If it had been possible to run in this outfit, I would have, but I could merely let myself fall into the aligned plastic rocket. The ride was quick, but spectacular. Worth every bundle. I rolled myself out of the sled and dragged it back up the hill again. And again. Until my socks had worked themselves into a bundle at my toes, my breath had frozen into my woolen scarf, and I could no longer feel my fingers. Returning to the warmth and safety behind the glass window.

I suppose there is no bigger hill than the one you are on. Driving through the Rocky Mountains yesterday, I had no need for bundling, not the outer kind anyway. It was warm in the car. My fingers would not freeze upon the wheel. But I did gather myself in. Collected myself in what I have already climbed. My mother kept a yellow sticky note by her phone that read, “What haven’t you gotten through?” 

Reaching Denver, I smiled. The sun shone as brightly as a yellow note that held. We had once again made it through, and it was spectacular!

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